


That Kind of Party

by MaddyHughes



Series: Hannibal Lecter Takes It Up The Ass [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bedelia Is So Done, Bottom Hannibal, Choking, Episode: s03e01 Antipasto, M/M, Oral Sex, Scarf Dad, Scarf Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 07:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14130846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: Scarf Dad fucks Hannibal Lecter up the ass. Also: scarf.At Red Dragon Con 4, a Fannibal asked Tom Wisdom (who plays Dimmond) what had happened between the scene in the Palazzo Capponi, where Hannibal's shirt is buttoned up and he's wearing a bow tie, and the following scene when Dimmond and Hannibal arrive at Hannibal's apartment, and Hannibal's shirt is unbuttoned and the bow tie is gone. This is my answer to that question.It follows on from Part One of this series, Carnavale.





	That Kind of Party

Bedelia slams her glass down. ‘That’s it, Hannibal,’ she says, with uncharacteristic temper. Then again: he’s provided uncharacteristic provocation. ‘It’s over.’

‘You’re leaving me, Mrs Fell?’ The words are a honeyed drawl. He knows this will never happen.

‘I don’t have that choice, unfortunately. However, even if I have no freedom, for the time being I have some autonomy over my own body and mind. I am _not_ touching you again. You are utterly cut off.’

‘Are you saying I’m free to pursue pleasure elsewhere?’

‘You can fuck the entire _Studiolo_ as far as I care. You can find a hooker on the _Viale Guidoni_. Or a twitchy gigolo with curly hair.’ _At least if you’re with someone else I won’t have to dread you calling out the name of Will Graham,_ she thinks.

Bedelia gets up, slightly unsteady on her high heels, and heads to the cellar for another bottle of wine. She tosses over her shoulder: ‘Just don’t bring them home for dinner.’

***

‘Is it that kind of party?’ enquires Anthony Dimmond two days later at their dinner table, his hair curly, his face sly, neck wreathed in a louche silk scarf.

He is _just_ Hannibal Lecter’s type.

Hannibal glances at Bedelia, in curiosity and more than a little triumph. She is not amused: not at this conversation, not at their guest. But Hannibal is. Very amused.

‘It’s not that kind of party,’ he says.

‘No, it really isn’t,’ she echoes.

‘Shame,’ says Anthony, so sure of himself, so sure of his life. ‘You were both suddenly so fascinating.’

***

In the Palazzo Capponi, in the midst of an exhibit of torture instruments, next to a breaking wheel, Anthony Dimmond lays out his proposition.

‘I’m here to help you untwist,’ says Anthony, ‘to our mutual benefit.’

‘Then by all means,’ says Hannibal, holding his gaze. A slight smile. ‘Please do.’

Balanced on a moment, a pause. Blackmail, or a more fundamental exchange?

And then Anthony says, ‘Kneel.’

Hannibal removes his bow tie and puts it in his pocket. He unbuttons the top button of his shirt. Getting to his knees in front of Anthony, he says, ‘This isn’t the way to loosen my tongue.’

‘Oh,’ says Anthony, unbuckling his belt, ‘I hope that it is.’

Anthony Dimmond has no idea that the false Dr Fell is actually a true cannibal. If he did, he would be considerably more hesitant in taking out his semi-erect cock and guiding it to Hannibal’s lips.

Hannibal doesn’t hesitate at all. If there’s one thing he enjoys, it’s playing with his food.

He licks around the hot tip of Anthony’s dick, sucking it into his mouth and rolling his deft tongue around it. Anthony’s hard within seconds, and he thrusts his hips forward and his cock deep into Hannibal’s mouth with a low groan. But after that initial impatient thrust of possession, he seems to get control of himself. His hands settle in Hannibal’s hair and he firmly guides Hannibal’s mouth back and forth on his cock, pausing between thrusts so that Hannibal can lavish tongue and lips on the sensitive tip.

Hannibal allows the other man this illusion of control. Anthony might as well enjoy himself while he can. Go out with a bang, so to speak. And besides, Anthony is delicious. Hannibal sucks gladly, cheeks hollowed, thinking with delight about how Bedelia will react when she smells the other man’s semen on his breath.

But Anthony has other plans. After a final, deep thrust to the back of Hannibal’s throat, he withdraws. He’s breathing hard and there’s a spot of pink on either cheek.

‘Stand up,’ he orders. ‘And turn around.’

Hannibal, such a good boy, stands. He turns and braces his hands against the breaking wheel. Anthony’s hands are less than gentle as they pull open the other man’s belt and trousers and push them and his underwear down to his ankles.

‘Ah, you like this, don’t you?’ Anthony murmurs, his hand reaching round to clasp Hannibal’s erection. He pumps it expertly, snaking his other hand round to tug at Hannibal’s testicles. ‘But this isn’t about your pleasure.’

‘You said to our _mutual_ benefit,’ says Hannibal, not bothering to hide his enjoyment of these caresses. Anthony’s hand is strong, fingers slim. It resembles Will Graham’s, though it’s considerably more practised at this than Will Graham is likely to be.

‘Oh, it will be. But mostly…this is about me screwing over Roman Fell.’ He gives Hannibal another tug and whispers in his ear: ‘Bend over.’

‘You won’t break me,’ says Hannibal, bending over and holding tight to the torture wheel. ‘But you are welcome to try.’

Anthony has definitely done this before. And he’s come prepared for any kind of party: Hannibal hears the pop of a plastic bottle opening, and feels the tell-tale slickness of lube drizzled between his buttocks. Anthony’s strong, sure hands pull his cheeks apart and he massages the lube around and into his anus, slipping a bold finger inside for a few exploratory pumps.

‘I think I _will_ try,’ murmurs Anthony. His hands leave Hannibal for a moment and although Hannibal thought he knew exactly how this encounter would play out, he’s surprised when he feels Anthony’s silk scarf being looped around his neck. And tightened.

‘My lecture was about the noose,’ says Hannibal, while he can still breathe.

‘I won’t leave you hanging,’ says Anthony. ‘Though I may…take your breath away.’

And with that series of bad puns (Hannibal, partial as he is to word play, is quite glad he never read any of Dimmond’s poetry), Anthony pulls on the scarf, tugging Hannibal’s head back, arching his body as he uses his other hand to push his cock into Hannibal’s ass.

Anthony fucks like an expert. Hannibal thinks Anthony has probably fucked his way across Europe. He travels alone but that doesn’t mean he’s alone for long: from party to hotel to luxurious apartment. He has an eye for the most attractive person in the room. And yes, that gratifies Hannibal’s vanity, but this is exciting too: the silk scarf tightening around his neck, his air getting thready. Anthony’s blatantly sensual thrust of cock in Hannibal’s ass. He tugs the scarf with one hand and digs the fingertips of the other into Hannibal’s hips, while Hannibal holds tight to the wheel, pushes back with his ass, pushes forward with his neck, to get the greatest friction and constriction.

Hannibal’s best noise is a guttural choke, but Anthony is whispering words into this room full of glass cases and instruments of torture. Hannibal can’t make them out over the roar in his ears, but they aren’t meant for him. They’re meant for Roman Fell, presumably; the man Hannibal replaced. The man Hannibal ate.

Full circle, leaning here on this wheel.

Anthony’s words get faster and more vicious and his thrusts do, too. The noise of his balls and stomach slapping against Hannibal’s ass claps in the empty room; echoes back to them. Flesh on flesh. Dimmond keens loudly. Pulls hard on the scarf, choking off the last of Hannibal’s breath. He lets go of Hannibal’s hip and grabs his cock again, stroking in time with his final thrusts. And Hannibal with lungs burning, brain fizzing with lack of oxygen, climaxes with bursts of light in front of his eyes.

Hannibal’s semen lands on the wheel of torture, where so much human blood and piss and sweat has been spilled. He sags on the thin edge of consciousness. But it enhances the sensation of Anthony slamming one last time into him, Anthony shouting out his orgasm, Anthony buried deep inside this man who is so soon going to kill and eat him, too.

Dimmond holds on to the scarf for a long, long moment, as blackness creeps and consumes Hannibal’s vision, as his legs tremble and bend.

Then he lets it go. Hannibal gasps and drags in air, and for a moment everything around him sparkles with dangerous light.

When he’s recovered himself and turns around, Anthony has zipped himself up, draped the scarf around his neck again. Only a telltale flush on each of his cheeks, a glitter in his eyes, betrays what he’s just done.

Hannibal, languid yet precise, pulls up his clothes and fastens them. Tomorrow he will have bruises on his neck, but for now, the collar of his shirt conceals most of them.

Only most of them. Bedelia will be gritting her teeth.

‘Come back to my house,’ he says, his voice slightly rough. ‘I’m sure my wife will be pleased to see you again.’

Ass still burning, throat hot and dry, he thinks it’s almost a pity that he has to kill Dimmond. He’s such a lovely plaything.

‘Your delicious wife,’ purrs Dimmond. ‘I wonder how she tastes. Or is she more of an…observer?’

‘Oh,’ says Hannibal, smiling, thinking of the white heat of Bedelia’s jealousy, the red taste of her fear, ‘she might be moved to participate.’

**Author's Note:**

> **This is number three in a collection of mini-fics about Hannibal Lecter taking it up the ass. Suggestions for future fics welcome and indeed, encouraged.**


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